24 Hours
by Icye
Summary: Moons have changed the clans immensely. As battle after battle scars the earth, emotions distort reality and fate's every breath spells venom. In the meantime, a sun falls. The moon rises. And everything is bathed in ᴅᴀʀᴋɴᴇss. (1 drabble a day. . . a challenge of sorts)
1. thistle

She thinks she's dreaming, though she isn't certain. The night sky has given way to a blur of colors, and the repetitive popping of gunpowder-like sounds fill the air. There's a soft film over everything, a lens that she is looking through. Through the clearness that has been bestowed upon her, she sees for the first time. She sees wonder, and emotions, and sunset. She sees everything for what it is. But, in an achingly slow manner, the thistle destroys everything. He traces over her past with an iron paw, carelessly stepping through every heartsong that she has given him. She has a world ahead of her, with a pelt made of thorns and a voice that sings of sweet lullabies. Yet he will forever remain dominant.


	2. wide-eyed

Like a duckling who has just burst free from its shell, she stares into the wide open plains. The night is young, adorned with a crescent moon that hangs sadly in the midst of pale sparkling stars. Her heart bleeds with the corpses of a thousand memories, but she has been long accustomed to it. Even now, the thistle's presence intrudes upon her every waking thought. His somber meow is the last thing she hears as she slips into sleep and the first thing she notices when she rises to welcome the day. There is nothing but sadness and fury in her blood now, although tears cease to fall as she wanders through the maze of her grief, wide-eyed to even the faintest signs of her beloved.


	3. meddle

Meddling with others' affairs have always been entertaining for her. She enjoys the rush, the thrill of adrenaline as she takes the advantage with ease. Her charm has never failed her, despite his constant warnings. He speaks with a certain respect for her, although she has never really been aware of that. Stubbornness has forever tainted the voices of others, after all. Still, she enjoys her little games, finding pleasure in the rumors and gossip that constantly pervade the quietness of camp. Cats are used to her now, with her constant intrusive questions and endearing smiles; even the thistle has fallen for her once or twice. Otherwise, how would she be carrying his heart?


	4. knead

She always loved her little clay figures. The skill required patience, a trait which she never had. Nonetheless, she was adamant that her figurines would surpass anyone else's in the clan. As her claws pummeled the tiny clay sculptures, kneading them into small, barely discernible shapes, she was filled with a love that propelled her to continue with her craft. In a way, kneading these clay figures was a way for her to broadcast her affection without acting too forthright. The thistle was always the subject of her dedication, and she would tirelessly make more and more if only to see a smile flicker across his dark, serious face. Worn out paws and cracked pads were, of course, a small price to pay for his happiness.


	5. flower

She cups the little flower in her paws, inhaling the sweet perfume that emanates from its petals. Its fragility frightens her. In a way, she thinks that the flower is so much like herself. Though she has always been wandering the world with happiness, there is something within her that shrivels when she sees something so beautiful. _Flower, what have I ever done to you? _she thinks. _How are you so _happy_, when you have nothing to do but sit there through sun and night? I wish I were as indifferent as you. Then. . . maybe then I could finally move on from him. _She shakes her head, a sigh shuddering through her. _But alas, there is nothing to do. . . nothing to do but wait and see if he believes my empty promises. _A lonely tear sparkles in one eye, then disappears as she blinks it away. _Oh StarClan. . . what have I ever done to you? What have I done to make you hate me so much that you want to give me something and then so cruelly take it away?_


	6. shield

She is used to his protectiveness, the sudden bold moves and quick words that are all targeted toward one simple goal: gaining her trust. She knows that deep within his heart, he is no shield. He does not live like a coward, huddling back as the enemy approaches. No, he's a cat who protects everyone, a cat designed for battle in every way. She has never seen claws so sharp, eyes so bright, smiles so filled with confidence. She used to think she hated all of it, but there was something so terribly endearing about his arrogance. The fact that he was willing to risk his life for the safety of his clanmates was almost heartbreaking to think of. She always assumed that he would get home safely. After all, he was her living shield. But one day, when winter snowflakes were just beginning to fall, she discovered that he was not only her shield. . . he was everyone's.


	7. shiver

The cold is overwhelming. Brittle shards of ice freeze to the ground, and entire bodies of water crystallize under the presence of winter's cruel touch. The forest feels empty, as if there is nobody there but her. She is winter, after all. . . her heart has frozen to the point of oblivion. Every breath that she exhales is filled with pain, for despite the numbness within her, she still feels the sharp characteristic pang of heartbreak. The thistle will never understand, of course. He is long gone, his spirit risen to the dark wintry skies. Once, she would have given anything, even her life, to be with him. Now, she only wants to cling to the coldness so that she can shiver for eternity.


	8. motivate

Motivation is a rarity in the clans. Although every cat is fueled with their own ambitions, no one but her has experienced it in its true form. With a fresh ache in her heart and limbs numb to the cold, she stepped out into the clearing and beheld her new destiny. It was a beautiful day, to say the least. Soft auburn light flooded into the trees, turning their leaves an ombre of citrus and ruby. The grass was gloriously soft beneath her paws, like a new moss bed. Inhaling sharply, she strode cautiously out into the trees, her ears pricked for any sign of her clanmates. Thankfully, there was no one to be seen, and she was able to perform the deed. A sharp rock was secured between her paws, and with it, she began to slowly cut away everything that she didn't deserve.


	9. ablaze

She is ablaze. Not with fire, but with pain. The spark of a thousand emotions radiate through her skin, searing her alive. As much as she would like to be innocent, she knows that she is far from that. This pain. . . was it enough? She reaches for the rock again, needing it like she needs him. . . the thistle. For a moment, there's only one light shining upon her, the light of him. She feels it so acutely that it's almost difficult to comprehend. Such a burning sensation needs to be eradicated. . . But again, that fire doesn't stop. It consumes her, reminding her of the heart that she recklessly gave and the needles throbbing in its wake. There will never be anything but fire, it reminds her, and even that is nothing compared to him.


	10. icy

She feels cold, even though she has been encased with anger for some time now. Her eyes have been opened to the true natures of reality and she isn't surprised by the twist of emotions that she experiences. After all, what can she be surprised by, when he's gone? When his cold, lifeless corpse has been buried into the ground? She will never see him again until she reaches StarClan, and even that is not satisfying to her. Though she may be wiser, she is still foolish for thinking of instant gratification. Because although she may try a thousand different methods of self-harm, none of them work. It appears that even StarClan has a fate for this one icy entity.


	11. voyage

She thinks about life often, perhaps even more so after he left. The thistle has left an impact on her, and now, suffering through every day and night, she comes to realize the consequences. Life is full of tragedies and brief spurts of happiness. It's composed of destinations and in the end, the voyage loses its meaning. Death and suffering occur in every living being, she thinks. Whether they eventually travel to StarClan or stay to haunt the living, cats are united by this one simple fact. From the moment a kit opens his eyes, he begins the voyage to death. There may be waves and turbulence amid the journey, but eventually he will arrive, and close his eyes for the final time.


	12. bolt

Lightning.

It flickers across her veins, scoring its mark and charring her fur. Soft flesh melts under its venomous touch, leaving red marks all across her body, yet she feels nothing. She might as well be a corpse, with the level of sensitivity that she's prone to. No emotions taint her as she simply stares straight into the fire, her dreams ignited by the flow of electricity over her body. Once, she might have yowled and screamed until someone came to rescue her. But these days, there is no reason to call for help or demand attention, when she is but a ghost herself.


	13. hairy

The feeling that permeates her fur from dawn to dusk is one akin to nothing she has ever experienced. It's like the sun has swallowed her, leaving her pelt and flesh to boil as she struggles through rapidly sinking quicksand. The lens over her eyes. . . the darkness that burns everything she looks at. . . it's all because of him. The thistle. Crying is never enough to endure the pain that returns afterward. It's most comparable, really, to the feeling of having each individual hair plucked out of her body, until she's stripped of what she needs to stay safe. Until she's nothing but a corpse, a bald specimen that holds nothing of life. She wants death, craves it even. But until then, she must live each day with pain.


	14. slow

Slow but steady.

That's her ultimate principle in life: the most crucial and most demanding. Though the thistle has burned away her life motive, she can still enjoy the simple things.

At least that's what she thinks.

Slow and steady.

Soft and sure.

Life, liberty. . .

and the pursuit of happiness?

She scoffs. What sort of happiness is left for her, here in this dungeon where she is forever trapped? Life no longer contains its brilliant shine. It's dull, matte. She feels like an abomination amidst a clan filled with normal cats. Cats who don't have a life elsewhere. Cats who are completely dedicated to this Clan.

Life. It really feels like a burden, doesn't it?

At least, that's what she thinks. But she could always be wrong.

Slow and steady. There's no harm in that. Or is there?


	15. borrow

To borrow is to use something and then return it. That is what she has known for her entire life. It should be the dictionary definition, the meaning that surpasses it all. Yet why has borrowing always been synonymous to taking? Her heart, his heart. Her life, his life. It's all a plot of the stars, a myth that has always been a game. Since when did his words start infecting her like a disease? Since when did she become so vulnerable to his actions? He can borrow her heart, smash and throw it away, even. It's a fragile little thing, prone to breaks and tears. But surely, after all this, he will return it?


	16. cry

She feels them like ice droplets crystallizing on her skin; her flesh freezes, and everything goes blank for one solid moment. All she thinks is that she could have done better. She could have saved him. He could have survived if she had just been a little bit faster. . .

The tears form, sliding softly down her nose. Like little raindrops, almost. . . specks of gold. They glimmer, glistening in the starry light. She wants them to be an illusion, another figment of her imagination like all the other mysteries that have befallen her lately. Yet deep within her, she knows that they are just another touch of reality, a sign from StarClan that something has gone terribly wrong.


	17. stone

The sizzle of burnt flesh fills the air. Its a hair-raising fragrance that speaks of death and guilt alike. Still, she revels in the smell, for it carries the knowledge of harm that she deserves. Finally, she is punishing herself for all the mistakes she has made in the past. Her parents, her friends, the thistle. . . they would be proud, seeing her like this. They would be grateful, even. Now, they don't have to harm her; she's doing it for them. For them, always. The thistle isn't alive anymore to witness this little deed. But, as blood drips onto the pale moss-covered stone, she cherishes the thought of his pride.


	18. robin

The robin's call has always filled her ears. Its soft sweet voice surpasses any other song; in fact, it truly reminds her of herself. For, within the deep recesses of its heart, she knows that it's mourning, just as she is. It calls for its mate, its loved ones, its family. Yet, day by day, it becomes clear that there is no one to answer its cry. The robin will forever sing; yet, in a way, it will never be heard.

It seems a crime, really. The thistle has done the same to her, penetrating the darkest depths of her heart and twisting her mind until she can't tell what's right or wrong. She's been swept away by a daydream, only to come back like the robin, forever calling to no one.


	19. familiar

He is a stranger.

An absolute shadow, an abomination that will never be saved.

His corpse can rot for all she cares. She wishes he were dead. She wishes his life had never come to existence. She wishes. . . so. . . many. . . things. . .

And none are true.

He will never evade her thoughts; he is like a demon, constantly swarming around her even after life. His body has gone cold, yet she still remembers everything.

Familiarity. She always thought it was a gift, to remember her family and all they had done for her.

_He is not her family._

_He is nobody. _

_A stranger._

An absolute stranger.


	20. serious

The first time he gazed into her eyes, he wondered why she looked so serious. Her dark eyes were filled with emotion, as if she could detect the thoughts of everyone around her. There was an indescribable expression on her face, one that spoke of mystery and beauty. Her fur was soft and held the color of dark oak. Her ears were tufted like a lynx's; perhaps they were just one more sign of how knowledgeable she seemed. Even her eyes looked years past their age. _Will I ever figure her out? _he wondered. _Will I ever truly know this epitome of seriousness?_


	21. grasshopper

The little green critter scurries across a frond of grass. Its every step speaks of hesitance, as though it is afraid of what may come. Perils lie on every inch of the forest, and the grasshopper seems to know this. However, even though it's frightened, it seems to maintain a certain composure that exudes a falsified aura of calmness. It scampers onto the next branch, and the next, before it finally disappears into the trees, finding sanctuary away from the watchful eyes of its predator. Yet- too late!- it is quickly snatched up by a descending hawk. Its bones and organs are crumbled to pieces as it collapses between the powerful jaws of the enemy.


	22. advice

The old wizened elder has always insisted upon one important virtue. _Smile in the face of pessimism. _His advice has been bestowed upon every apprentice and young warrior in the clan; sometimes, even the rare senior warrior will recall his wise words. Unfortunately, most cats ceased to remember his warnings. They were too preoccupied with materialist things to notice the wisdom that radiated from his every mew. His words were like dust, destined to enter one ear and out the other.

To her, however, she saw him differently. Especially after the thistle's demise, she remembered every word that the elder had told her. Smile. Smile. _Smile. _She must smile. There was no need to think these overwhelming thoughts. If only she could just _smile_.


	23. risk

It had been moons after the thistle's death, and she was finally beginning to look toward recovery. Although he would make a lasting impact on her, she resolved to take matters into her own hands so that she could no longer think of him. After all, if she despised him so much, it was only fitting that she replaced him.

He looked like he held the stars in his paws. His fur was graced with a cool, elegant sheen that set his brilliant blue eyes on fire. His pelt was delicately striped with dark tabby patterns and his legs were taut with muscle. The first time she saw him, she couldn't help but swoon. Perhaps he was the one who would take her mind off everything. He was certainly worth every risk. . .Or was he?


	24. twist

Love.

It was a rarity now, so elusive that it escaped her grasp for much of her life. Her parents had died when she was little, and she had never been truly loved until she met the thistle. Now, with his death, all hopes of a future had dissipated into the smoke that clouded his grave.

But maybe. . . if she could see beyond it. . .

She could see the moon. And perhaps that moon would change her, twisting her until she was able to put the thistle beyond her.

But again, that was a vision, a dream that had not been satisfied yet.


	25. fluid

The water flowed peacefully, a constant presence that always managed to fill her with serenity. As she gazed out over the river, she felt peace pervade her, spreading through her limbs and infecting her like a disease. All at once, she wished to become closer to the water; she wished for it to fill the emptiness in her heart so that she would never be lonely again.

In a matter of heartbeats, she had joined its currents.

The gentle flow of water bubbled up around her, and she felt the comfortable sway of currents move her to the opposite shore. In just moments, she was transported to her childhood. She remembered all the wistful moments when she had gazed out at the water. The other apprentices had been taught how to swim, but she had never been afforded such a luxury. Instead, she taught herself, training her muscles to move with the water.

Now, she was hit by a sudden realization. It had been moons since she had last swam, and her muscles were hardly as strong as before. She had gotten weak after the thistle's intrusion. He had never encouraged her to swim and had helped her with everything. He had taught her what it was like to be lazy, and foolish.

_Well, there is no one left who cares._

With a shuddering smile, she stared into the river and let herself sink into its depths, until she could drown quietly, effortlessly, with no one to notice.


	26. moony

The moon. He shone down from the trees like a wraith, radiating an ephemeral light that flickered constantly. His words were like music, a lullaby designed to trap her under its spell. His poignant words, his elegant lope—everything hinted at a devil disguised as an angel.

He was crafted from the stars, a glorious being who was more handsome than even the thistle, designed to capture her heart and twist it until she would fall again, heartbroken and lost.

_But perhaps I can trust him_, her thoughts whispered. _Perhaps he's not all bad. Perhaps. . . perhaps I can find love again._


	27. pine

She awoke under the pine trees, breathing in its heady perfume as she blinked the grogginess out of her eyes. The river flowed beside her, and she couuld hear the pleasant sound of birdsong around her. The scene was picturesque, yet something seemed wrong.

Instantly, she froze. Standing before her was the moon, his pale pelt slick as rivulets of water dribbled out of his fur. His eyes were full of concern for her, and he seemed happy that she had awoken.

"Who. . . what?" she stammered, confusion tainting her mew.

His brow furrowed, but he attempted to disguise his concern with a charming smile. "You tried to- to take your own life," he explained in a quiet, almost mournful tone. "And I. . . I saved you." He shook his head, as if shaking off the memories of the previous night. She could see the lasting fear in his eyes, almost similar to her fear of losing the thistle.

"What day is it?" she asked abruptly, fearful. She needed to visit the thistle's grave every day. Surely it had not been more than a sunrise. . .

"You've been asleep for three sunrises," he responded apologetically.

All at once, she felt the weight of a thousand suns crash upon her. The thistle's memory. . . he had been _forgotten_. He could never be forgotten. It was all her fault. This was all her fault. She wanted to die. She wanted to escape. She needed. . . she needed _him_. The real question was. . . who was _him_? Was he the thistle? Or was he the moon?


	28. lethal

He's a murderer.

A monster.

A sadist.

He longs for her heart, a craving that will never be satisfied. He knows that she has already given half of herself to the thistle, and the remaining half is weak and healing. She will never be the same but still, he longs. He forces all the pleasure out of his life and focuses on his ambitions, until he has almost collapsed, surrendering himself to her, and only her.

Yet. He still hopes. He wishes. He wants.

His heart aches with the pains of a thousand, as if all the world's souls rest within him. He knows he is lethal, of course he is lethal.

After all, he holds the weapon of love.


	29. hapless

She's hapless, a true heroine in a tale that ends with sorrow of every kind. Even as she feels the moon's gaze radiating through her fur, she can't shake off the emotions that roll through her like thunderclouds. The thistle's presence lingers within her like a stone, refusing to depart even as she converses with the moon. There will never be anyone else for her, although of course there are many options for her inside the clan. Really, her every word with the moon is for passing time and nothing more, with no hidden decipherable meaning. And so, she weaves an intricate tale, one of unfortunate details and losses as she winds through the everglades.


	30. aware

Awareness hits her, a sharp bolt in the midst of a soft, dream-like trance.

It's a strange thing, really. Close proximity can do wonders to the weakened soul. When she stares into his eyes, she sees herself reflected back, a fearful she-cat who will never truly understand him. She sees so many things within those gorgeous blue orbs, but none can match the thistle. Those memories that come back to her, so filled with splendor and joy, are too much for her to bear in the brief interval of a few moons. So, with great sorrow igniting within her, she pushes him away, letting him leave her so that she can burrow into the ground, forever lost in the deep dark recesses of her mourning soul.


	31. devilish

He burns, cool and miserable, in the wake of her presence. Calling to her is futile; she simply runs further, evading him in the hopes of protecting herself. _But my love, _he yearns to call. _Your heart is made of glass, and I promise I will cherish it for ever. _But alas, she refuses his countless pleads, for she is breaking, and he is broken, and he will perhaps be broken for the rest of his life if he does not find another.

_And you. I could find you. We would be happy. We would- we would- _

He doesn't know what they would do.

Would that love last? Would it burn out, fizzling to a stop like the monsters he's often seen? Or will it flare on, persistent amid the constant complications that will surely arise?

_You're too good for me,_ she says every time he speaks to her.

But no. For he knows that deep down, his heart contains the blackest ink known to mankind- the evil that will keep calling for her, no matter how many times she's left him.


	32. dash

He's always been a fast runner. Every time he competed with the other apprentices, he knew he would have a guaranteed win. Even some of the warriors were hopeless against his quick feet and long legs. His races have carried him nowhere before, only gaining him a reputation among his clanmates. But reputations mean nothing to him; if he can't use it to get what he wants, then it's almost useless.

But. . . there is a chance. . .

He runs. Fleet-footed and sure, he dashes across the moorland, skirting the clumps of bush as he feels his paws thump in a consistent beat on the scraggly ground. His muscles burn, but that is a small price to pay for her- he will do anything short of taking his own life.

He runs until his heart pounds and his lungs are close to bursting. He feels his breaths begin to fail him as he slowly grinds to a stop, until at last he's standing there, a lone figure gazing mournfully across the pale grasslands. His talent- was it ever a talent? What sort of chance has he given himself, now that she has left him, never to speak to him again?


	33. glorious

He sits next to the river, watching it flow beneath the golden haze of the sunlight. As a cool wind blows across his fur, he can only think of one thing: her. The aspen. Her cool, calculative gaze, the way she stares at him with an expression akin to dread. Yet all the same, he thinks of her in the highest way possible, as if she were standing on an invisible pedestal. There is a certain aura that surrounds her glorified form, one that demands attention. It's a strange, bittersweet sort of sadness, one that tears at his heart more than anything in the world.


	34. melt

He melts under her shrewd gaze, an icicle sent to the depths of a pool of molten lava. He feels her influence on him like a brittle knife, slowly cutting away everything he cares about until he is solely focused on her. _Her. _He cannot move, he cannot feel a thing except that strong sweep of joy whenever he greets her. Her cool amber eyes regard him with a certain dread, a certain warning. . . but all the same, he knows she cares for him. There is a certain connection that binds them together, something that exists beyond the comprehension of worldly beings. He can only follow his heart, that weak pulsing muscle entrapped within the stiff confines of his rib cage. His heart longs to burst from its boundaries, climb into the world and seek her for his own.

But for now, he must wait. For he is melting, and every look from her is fire.


	35. one bad apple

His heart shrivels at her every gaze. Clear solemn eyes. . . fur that shines in every weather. Sinewy muscles tightly coiled beneath her pristine glossy pelt. He can't stand the aching pulse in his chest, the flutters arising whenever he nears her. He can't ignore the heartbreak he feels when she speaks to another tom; he can't ignore that gushing river of hot molten jealousy. She has an influence on him so potent that it has become an addiction. He loves the way she smiles, the way she walks, the way she looks at him, as if she can see the world in his eyes. Every smile from her is coquettish, wry. . . every smile strips away the layers of self control and virtue built up within him. He loves her, but he can't admit it.

For how can an angel admit to loving a devil?


End file.
